Teresa Lisbon's Footsteps
by YellowRosesAndHearts
Summary: Post-ep for the season 1 finale, Red John's footsteps. Jane happens upon Lisbon crying in her office after the barn scene, which leads to a deep discussion, and an unexpected turn of events. Jane/Lisbon.


_**So, you know what really bothers me? When I'm reading an ongoing story, waiting for an update, and note that the writer has stopped in the middle of it to write some entirely unrelated one-shot. I'm always like "couldn't they spend that energy on the other story?" And I've just become that author. And I'm sorry to anyone who's reading my 25 departures thing, waiting for chapter 23. It's coming. This idea just wouldn't get out of my head, though, after the finale, so it detoured me.. I generally almost never let the characters physically do anything in my stories, which makes this one odd. It's a missing scene from red john's footsteps. It switches POVs, so that's what's up w/ the sections. Sorry about the long A/N. Please review.**_

i.

Lisbon should have known better.

The second Jane had told her his plans for Red John, she should have promptly gone to Minelli to rat him out, gotten him banned from that case entirely. If Jane was a cop with such a personal vendetta, there was no question he wouldn't be allowed to continue.

But she hadn't done that.

Sitting in her office that day, she had hardly considered it. She couldn't imagine doing that to him. She stuck her neck out for him for the umpteenth time, and dutifully kept her mouth shut. Like an idiot.

And why? It wasn't because she cared about him, even though she obviously did, and it wasn't because he solved too many cases for losing him to be a feasible option. It really wasn't any of that.

No, she'd covered for him in the same way she'd cover for Cho, or Rigsby, or even Van Pelt, come to that—because he was part of her team. He was connected to her; he was connected to them. Lisbon was fiercely loyal, she wouldn't have sold him out, not for anything.

And it is this, more than anything, that grates on her now.

That he doesn't see himself as part of them, not really. Maybe she knew early on that he was using them, that they were a means to an end. Finding Red John was the single thing keeping him alive, pushing him forward. Nothing else mattered. She'd known that.

But in recent months, she thought he might have changed. The way he was with all of them—the way he poked fun at her, the way he mentored Grace, and made bets with Cho and Rigsby. When he'd told her, _No matter what happens, I'm going to be here for you. I need you to know that._ She had almost believed him.

It is after twelve now, she is sitting in her office. Her light is the only one on; she is facing her window. Thinking over the day behind her.

It is raining—a torrential, thunderous rain. And she still hasn't told Minelli yet about Jane, even though she knows now, more than ever, that she should. She saw him just after they got back, before everyone left for home, and told herself, _I need to tell him._ _Boss, Jane is too attached to the Red John case. He's willing to go above the law to get to him; he has such a personal vendetta that it puts himself and all of us in danger._ She imagined herself saying this, but her breath was caught behind her teeth.

She can't do it, but she can't abide the alternative, either. She remembers him in that barn; pleading eyes, so tired, telling her that she should have waited. That even if he died, _they'd have Red John._

And maybe she'd never realized how consumed he was by it, because it startled her. She'd almost choked on her words back to him—you're being selfish, and childish, and I want you to stop it now. The words almost hadn't made it out of her mouth, so focused was she on swallowing her tears back.

Lisbon almost never cried, but she almost had then, in that barn. She was just so tired—so much, so full. She'd pushed it back down, but barely. There wasn't much room for it to fit in.

And she thinks of that now, feeling heavy in her chair. A pressing against her chest, a stinging in her eyes, like she's in the barn again. And crumbling, like a child.

Her cheeks are wet. A drop falls from her chin onto her collar bone, and that's how she becomes aware of it. Aware of the fact that she's crying in her office in the small hours of the morning.

Her shoulders are quivering, sobbing. And how is this happening? Wiping her itchy eyes with the back of her hand until they too are soaked. She hasn't cried in months, she is not overly empathetic—but here she is.

She knows that crying makes her eyes raw, her cheeks puffy. It's a bad thing, but she hears herself in her office like she's not really there, like she's floating above herself and watching her shoulders heaving, mopping her eyes with her sleeves.

Crying for herself, for Jane. For her own frustration at being wrong. For something else she can't quite place, but it's the biggest factor. Grateful, so grateful, that she is alone now—that she will be able to hail a cab home after this and pretend it never happened. Maybe wear some extra eye make-up in the morning to hide her swollen eyes.

It is then that she notices the shadow reflected in her small desk mirror, and the light rapping on her door, even though he is already inside. His voice is soft, and musical, and beautiful.

"Lisbon."

She doesn't turn around.

ii.

The quaking shoulders are a dead giveaway.

Lisbon is facing away from him—turned smack toward to window. He can't see her face. But the doubled back, the heaving shoulders—they betray her entirely.

Lisbon is crying.

He can't say just how it affects him—it just seems wrong, his boss alone in her office after midnight, sobbing.

It has been over four hours since he left the barn, since he shot Hardy—long enough for his mind to go blank again, for his rage to sink back below the surface. He is back to the way he normally is—haunted, but able to function on the outside. He is himself again, who he is between Red John episodes.

And Lisbon is not.

A good deal of him thinks he should probably leave her in peace now. Lisbon is not one given to displays of emotion, and will most likely be put out by his intrusion. He knows that.

But he also knows why she's crying, or at least a good bit of it, which makes it just feel wrong to walk away. The knowledge that she's crying for him, over him, pushes him into the room.

"Lisbon?"

She doesn't turn around right way. He sees her hastily wiping her eyes with her sleeves, and takes the moment to seat himself in her guest chair. He rubs his hands on his upper arms, extremely cold.

She turns to face him, fixes him with the sternest look she can manage, which, at present, is not very stern.

"What the hell are you doing here, Jane?"

He grins—something he does all the time, but it feels strange. He ignores the question.

"Why are you crying?"

Her green eyes suddenly look deadly. "None of your business."

"Oh, come on, Lisbon. Sharing is caring."

She rolls her eyes at him. They are slightly bloodshot, and her lids are puffy. "What do you want?"

He frowns. It's an interesting question. Just what is he doing in here? "I don't want you to cry."

She doesn't say anything, but he detects a slip in her face, a chink in her armor.

"Not for me, anyway," he says, his voice genial, but face sober. "Don't cry for me. I'm a lost cause."

She flinches, briefly shuts her eyes. "Don't say that."

"It's true, Teresa."

Lisbon turns her head, facing away from him. Not wanting to give up.

"Teresa," he murmurs. "Look at me."

She does. There are tear tracks on her face, her cheeks are blotchy. And yet she shines entirely through all that, she looks tough, and somehow still beautiful.

"I know you like to fix things, Teresa. I know. It's who you are." He pauses, gives his words a moment to land. "But you can't fix me. No one can. I'm too broken."

He's never seen her so sad. "Don't _say_ that," she repeats.

"It's the truth. I'm not worth it." He is still smiling. "So don't be sad."

"Yeah, that works. Sadness erased. They should have you give therapy sessions, Jane."

He doesn't respond, and she keeps going. "And it's really worth your life? It was worth me coming in there and finding you dead because I got there too late? Having to watch them mop your blood off the floor? It was worth that?" She pauses. "I can't believe that, Jane. I just can't."

The quiet hangs in the air between them. When he speaks it is in a quiet voice, tender. "I know you don't want to believe it. I know that. But it'll be better for you if you do. I don't want you to get hurt." He shifts in his seat.

"So this is worth you dying." Her voice is growing quieter, but more venomous, more intense. "And what about us? Is it worth my life, or Cho's? Rigsby? Van Pelt?"

He is silent for a long moment. It's like he's forgotten how to talk.

"Five years ago? I would have said yes, absolutely, it's worth anything." He sighs. "But I don't know." He stops, and looks into her face. Her bottomless green eyes. Is it worth her? "I don't think so," he whispers.

Her eyes are wide, drinking him in. "Well, that's a step, Jane."

He smiles, and it feels less strained. "Come on. I'll take you home."

She shoots him a questioning look, to which he grins wider. "You hate driving late at night."

Against everything, she smiles back. "I hate _you_," she replies.

Lisbon's apartment is only ten minutes away, and they drive in silence. Lisbon cuddles in the passenger seat with the chair back and her knees up. The window beside her is slightly open, and the wind softly brushes her hair back. The dark contrasts heavily with her skin, making it seem to glow. She is surprisingly striking in the near pitch black.

He insists on walking her to her door, without knowing why. It reminds him of being a high school kid—walking the pretty girl all the way home, in gawky hope of getting a kiss at her front door before her dad poked his head out of the window. Except he isn't in high school, and she is his boss. And so he has no idea why he is hiking up five flights of stairs to see her off.

She stops short at her apartment, 521, and fiddles with her keys, seeming to consider something. She flips her dark hair out of her eyes and looks up at him, turning words around in her head. He can see that.

And yet, when she speaks, it's the very last thing in the world that he expects to hear.

"You want to come in for a drink?"

iii.

She is almost as surprised at herself as he evidently is with her—his eyebrows are raised high, his mouth is slightly open.

"What?" He doesn't try to hide his confusion, which is rare.

And yet she doesn't back down. "A drink," she repeats. It occurs to her somewhere that she should be embarrassed, but she isn't, not in the slightest.

He keeps gaping at her, like he doesn't remember what a drink is. Throwing him off his game is kind of nice.

"You know, they typically come in liquid form? People ingest them for sustenance." Her sarcasm is always there, waiting for her to pick it up and run with it.

A slow smile dawns over his face. "Ah. There she is." Then a pause, and another grin. "A drink sounds lovely, Teresa. What do you have?"

"Vodka," she says instantly.

He furrows his eyebrows, looking amused. "That it?"

"Tequila."

He grins. "Anything else?"

She shrugs. "I might have some Apple Juice."

She isn't a heavy drinker, but somehow, there is always a good amount of alcohol in her apartment.

"No middle ground with you, huh? I'll take tequila."

Great. She has time, as she's pouring their drinks, to mentally berate herself. Just what is she _doing_ inviting Jane into her apartment? What the hell is wrong with her?

Many things, she thinks, as she considers the frightening notion that even now, as he's going though her pictures and the magazines on her coffee table, she doesn't want him to leave.

She wants him here. And she doesn't understand that.

***

Over an hour later, she is smiling. She is sitting on the loveseat, knees drawn up to her chest, nursing another drink. Jane is laughing at her—the bags under his eyes briefly gone, shaking his head.

What's funny?"

He laughs again. "This," he says, gesturing at the two of them. "It's a little strange." He pauses, considering. "Why did you invite me here, Teresa?"

It's a strange question—it sobers her, stops her giggles. "I don't know," she says. "No real reason."

"Not true," he replies. "No one does things without reasons."

She leans back against the couch. She doesn't know why. She just knows she's alone and can't sleep, and that's almost enough. And him—he's the sort of person who should never be alone, even though he almost always is.

"I remind you of how alone you feel," he suddenly says. "And you're trying to work something out in your own life by saving me."

"You already told me, you're beyond saving."

"But you're an optimist. Which is odd, considering how jaded you are. But you believe in justice, in love. As campy as that sounds."

"So?"

"So I remind you of something that conflicts with that."

When did this conversation start? Not seven hours before, the man who killed his family slipped through their fingers, and he's on her issues? She doesn't understand him, not at all.

And then it clicks in. It makes him feel like himself again. Jane hates wallowing.

"Maybe that's true."

_Can't you see there's people who care about you, who need you?_

The words were familiar. She'd hissed them at her father when she was fifteen years old, when she had found him passed out drunk in their living room. It was after her mother died, and he thought all his obligations had died with her.

But who did Jane have an obligation to? No family. And did he really have an obligation to her, to them? It was a dangerous thing, not having anyone to belong to.

"I just need to know what it's like," she hears herself say.

"What what's like, Teresa?"

"To look into a future, and not see anything there. Nothing around you—no one." She pauses, swallows a lump in her throat. She's not going to cry, not now. "Only the dark. I just want to understand."

"No, you don't. It's wrong for you." He crosses his legs on her coffee table. "And I'm sure your father did the best he could. He just couldn't try."

Not he tried his hardest, like everyone always tells her. This is decidedly different, more true. She'd never felt like her dad made the effort. Jane pardoned him in a different way, almost like he was pardoning himself in the same breath.

"And can you try?"

"I don't know."

"I just—I haven't lost things like you have. I know that." Jane's face is solemn, unreadable. "But I've lost things. My parents—" She breaks off. "And I can't imagine not trying, not—I don't know."

He moves closer to her on the couch. "You've lost plenty, Teresa. But you're not like me." He reaches over to play with a piece of her hair. "You're tougher, stronger."

"Don't patronize me, Patrick."

A slow grin crosses his face. "You never call me that."

"So?"

He grins again, and it melts something inside of her. "I like it."

Jane's face is closer to hers now, he is still smiling. She holds herself back, not wanting to be roped in by it, by him, but at the same time wanting to. "Is that so?" She asks, mainly to buy time.

Her mind isn't racing, like she would expect. There are no competing thoughts—nothing in her head screaming at her to stop or not to, there is none of that. No, everything is going in slow motion; she is watching them, floating somewhere without that piece of her mind that takes things apart, that rules her. There is just her and a considerable amount of tequila, and his voice.

"Yes. If you're me, the small things have to make you happy. Or you go insane."

And it's like the next instant in her mind is lifted from her memory, totally gone. Looking back, all she'll remember are his blue eyes, the teasing blue eyes, daring her to come closer. His shallow breaths and her own beating heart. And then her lips on his with no recollection of how they got there, like they've been there the whole time.

iv.

This is what heaven is like. It's that simple.

Not that Jane believes there is a heaven, because he doesn't. But if there was one, this is what it would be like. He just knows it.

His eyes are clamped shut, and he's trying to take it all in—kissing Lisbon here, on her couch, after three in the morning. The vodka has him heady—a bit tipsy, and adds to the delirium of the moment, here, pressed up against his boss, kissing her like he'll die if he stops.

There's her skin, god—so warm, soft—it smells both spicy and sweet, like cinnamon and honey. Moving his lips down to the soft shell of skin under her chin, her neck, wanting to bury himself there.

Getting lost in it. If it weren't Teresa he was with right now, he would pick her up, carry her into the next room. He would make up some excuse to jet off early the next morning. But not to her. It's not what she would want, and he can't stand the thought of making her sad.

He breaks off for a second, breathing hard, holding her back by the shoulders. "Teresa," he mumbles, " I—I can't be what you want."

He can't explain any better. She raises one shoulder, cocks her head to the side. Her eyes are bright. She is always her most beautiful and most seductive when she isn't trying—when she's being tough and frank, like she is now.

"I don't want anything," she says. "I just don't want the quiet." Her hands are back on his neck then, and before he knows it he's breathing her in again, it's happening again.

This isn't the first time he's been this close to a woman in the six years since his wife died. Far from it. He understands exactly what she means by not wanting the quiet.

But it's Lisbon, the very last person he should be with like this, if you didn't count Cho, or Rigsby, and it is inescapable—

He kisses her harder, trying to push those thoughts back down, and knows she's doing the same—stamping down thoughts of her father, of her upbringing, as she tugs fiercely at his white dress shirt, pulling him closer. _Jesus._

And there's that part of his brain telling him no, telling him to stop, screaming at him—

But she's an absolute assault on his senses, the hands kneading his neck, the soft berry smell of her shampoo. It's all there. It's all her.

But he pulls back again. He hears himself whisper, "You could get hurt." Kissing her forehead, realizing how much he doesn't want that to happen. And it's totally different, focusing on someone else's hurt besides his own.

"I probably will get hurt." Her voice is steady, unwavering. "But that's the way the world works."

And he's kissing her again—all desperation that makes him feel blind. He's thought about this before, of course he has. Mostly when she's mad at him, hard eyes, yelling at him. There's all this fire in her then, and it does something to him.

There's a relief he feels with each second—each stolen, panting, snatched kiss that makes him think, _finally_. It almost relaxes him.

But it's a mistake.

Jane has made lots of mistakes, he knows that. The biggest one got his family killed. And this one could sabotage any chance he has of finding the killer. But in that split second he isn't thinking like that, not really.

She is probably right, she probably will get hurt. It's the way life happens. But does he have to be the one to hurt her? Does he _always_ have to be the one to hurt people?

And he pulls away again, a last time.

He catches the somber light in her eyes, he nods. He whispers to her that it's okay, not to be sad. It's really okay. "I hate it when you're sad," he says, to which she murmurs that she's fine. He finds himself pushing pieces of her hair back and looking into her eyes, and has to tear himself away before he does something else stupid.

"Goodnight, Teresa," he calls from her door.

"Jane?" She replies. He turns to face her. "Just because I drunkenly made out with you does not mean you get to call me Teresa at work on Monday."

He laughs. Lisbon recovers herself better that anyone he's ever known. It's truly amazing. She stretches out to lay on her couch, hugging one of her small beige pillows as he shuts her front door.

He is cold again as he leaves; willing himself not to think of the potential warmth he's just passed up, with Teresa, in her apartment. But he relishes the regret; he savors it.

It makes him feel almost like a person again.


End file.
